Rain came softly after service today, changing robin egg blue skies to something dreamier and grey. Soft, fat drops plopped, seeping into cement and green grass as I watched from my book-strewn, technology-enhanced nest. I stood at the back sliding door, just listening to rain.
Christians lyricists have a serious flirt with water references right now; grace flows like a river, and holiness washes like a tide.
Andrew, my pastor, spent weeks talking about leaping into God, using the metaphor of a parachute off of a mountain. He stressed the point that questions only go so far, then there has to be the choice of faith.
The closest I've ever gotten (or ever intended to get) to para - anything happened at a church ladies retreat: I ziplined through Tyler pines, screaming like a little, little girl. In pigtails and lace trimmed socks.
And although there was definitely a moment when I had to wiggle my own butt off that tiny platform, the metaphor makes me eager to find a deep, deep hole - not eager to find the closest cliff.
But as the rain fell softly, God brushed the idea in my mind that He's not always the edge of a cliff. Sometimes the words we have just don't describe Him at all.
Words, labels, metaphors - describe, define. Limit. We use them because they do, but at the same time, we are limited by them. Some words tear, and shouldn't be used for just that reason. And some ideas should be discarded for the same reason.
My dad was a very wounded soul. When my mom left him, and the courts drug getting the paperwork to make it official, he gave me a teddy bear for comfort. I loved the bear, but passed it my younger brother because he needed it more. My brother slept through the night whenever he had the bear. When my dad asked why I didn't have it, I said I gave it to my brother. He replied I must not care much for it, and took it away when my brother and I next visited.
What I learned was not to not trust that good things would last. No matter how simple or how much I wanted them, not caring hurt less than having and losing.
That human expectation severely limited a God Whose Word created everything, Whose love seeks new ways to show me He wants good for me. And the more good He showed, the harder it became for me to trust Him at all. I just kept waiting for a bigger, uglier shoe to drop.
God is not, shall not, has not, never will be my father. God proves the exception to my father's rule.
And if I know what my father was, then I have to trust that God is something else entirely.
The soft rain that sweetly seeped into my yard stormed through other parts of the city. The news had dramatic footage of people trying to save Easter eggs from puddles.
Furious and gentle so close together; rain and thunderstorms evoke God simply and beautifully. And I can see why songwriters use water as a metaphor for Him.
And I can see why that soft rain, those grand clouds, that furious love would make Andrew want to jump. Jump big, brave into something there are not words for.
Because I'm all in for that, too.
Christians lyricists have a serious flirt with water references right now; grace flows like a river, and holiness washes like a tide.
Andrew, my pastor, spent weeks talking about leaping into God, using the metaphor of a parachute off of a mountain. He stressed the point that questions only go so far, then there has to be the choice of faith.
The closest I've ever gotten (or ever intended to get) to para - anything happened at a church ladies retreat: I ziplined through Tyler pines, screaming like a little, little girl. In pigtails and lace trimmed socks.
And although there was definitely a moment when I had to wiggle my own butt off that tiny platform, the metaphor makes me eager to find a deep, deep hole - not eager to find the closest cliff.
But as the rain fell softly, God brushed the idea in my mind that He's not always the edge of a cliff. Sometimes the words we have just don't describe Him at all.
Words, labels, metaphors - describe, define. Limit. We use them because they do, but at the same time, we are limited by them. Some words tear, and shouldn't be used for just that reason. And some ideas should be discarded for the same reason.
My dad was a very wounded soul. When my mom left him, and the courts drug getting the paperwork to make it official, he gave me a teddy bear for comfort. I loved the bear, but passed it my younger brother because he needed it more. My brother slept through the night whenever he had the bear. When my dad asked why I didn't have it, I said I gave it to my brother. He replied I must not care much for it, and took it away when my brother and I next visited.
What I learned was not to not trust that good things would last. No matter how simple or how much I wanted them, not caring hurt less than having and losing.
That human expectation severely limited a God Whose Word created everything, Whose love seeks new ways to show me He wants good for me. And the more good He showed, the harder it became for me to trust Him at all. I just kept waiting for a bigger, uglier shoe to drop.
God is not, shall not, has not, never will be my father. God proves the exception to my father's rule.
And if I know what my father was, then I have to trust that God is something else entirely.
The soft rain that sweetly seeped into my yard stormed through other parts of the city. The news had dramatic footage of people trying to save Easter eggs from puddles.
Furious and gentle so close together; rain and thunderstorms evoke God simply and beautifully. And I can see why songwriters use water as a metaphor for Him.
And I can see why that soft rain, those grand clouds, that furious love would make Andrew want to jump. Jump big, brave into something there are not words for.
Because I'm all in for that, too.
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